I always envisioned my trip around the world with the Wizard’s Eye would be like a college education, the ultimate test of my skills and mind against the raw power of the planet, in an environment in which I had almost no experience.

My education has been anything but orthodox, I was eager to learn from anything that wasn’t a textbook. I grew up on a ranch in Montana, developed a passion for whitewater kayaking, and soon found myself in a traveling high school for paddlers. Two years in my father told me school was too much of a financial burden. Returning to public school wasn’t an option so I worked a summer laying hardwood floors. I ended up making just enough to buy a plane ticket to the White Nile in Uganda, Africa, where I promised my parents I would finish high school.

In my first three weeks I ran up a $1,700 bar tab and forgot the PIN to my debit card allowing me to access my last $300. In need of a plan, I convinced the sketchiest company on the river that I was a highly qualified raft guide. The next morning, after a particularly long night, I learned I was the head guide of a six-raft trip. I stumbled through a dodgy safety talk and put in, then missed the finial eddy and dropped in above Bugigali Falls. I forgot to tell my clients to get down, but somehow luck was on my side and we came through clean. With the boss watching we put paddles in the air and I was off on my first day as a guide. I worked the next six months as raft guide, tandem kayak guide, and started a kayak school to pay off my debt to the bar, managing to finish high school in the process just like I promised.

Over the next few years I traveled from Alaska to Chile in a car powered by vegetable oil. I paddled in Madagascar, broke two world-record waterfall descents, then broke my back on a 95-footer in Oregon. Six months later I paddled the largest rapids in the world, the Grand Inga, with a fused spine, narrowly surviving the experience.

After that I was left pondering some serious life questions. I had accomplished my childhood dream of making it to the top of my sport; however, I was beginning to burn out from the mental fatigue of fearing for my life around every corner of the river. Like a high stakes gambler, I was wondering when it was time to walk away from the table before losing everything.

On a sailing trip through Mexico, I began dreaming of what I saw as the ultimate test: an adventure-sport circumnavigation of the world by boat. Obviously there plenty of obstacles between me and my dream, the least of which were 50,000 miles of deep, windswept oceans. I made my life’s journey to not let anything deter me from my dreams and soon began, what would become, the greatest education of my life.

Over the past four years I have been living out that dream aboard the Wizard’s Eye. Now, about to embark on the final leg, I can reflect on a few things I’ve learned.

Lesson 1: Make it Happen

It took four years to figure out this puzzle. In the end I learned there’s only one way to do something and that’s doing it. My finances never came close to matching my dreams, and to make things worse, I was trying to raise money at the apex of a recession. Eventually I convinced two of my closest sponsors to do what they could and borrowed $20K from my brother. A month later I bought the Wizard’s Eye and the expedition went from dream to reality. If you’re brave enough to take the first step, the universe will show you the way.

Lesson 2:Begin

If you wait for everything to be perfect, you’ll never begin. There’s only one way to see the entire path and that’s one step at a time. I bought the Wizard’s Eye for the deal of the century, and it turned out to have a quagmire of issues. The previous owner, who built the boat by hand, was on his deathbed and I never met the guy. He wasn’t able to explain to me the snake pit of an electrical box, what switches did what, how the rigging worked, where the tanks were or why they kept overflowing the moment the engine was turned on. The steering cylinder broke twice, and the replacement cylinder was the wrong size forcing me to fly back to the US for a new one. We finally managed to make it far enough off shore that we were past the point of no return and, although things continued to break, we fixed them as we went and made it across the Pacific. Hand steering the entire way.

Lesson 2 1/2: Learn to Sail

I used an old trick I learned in school and took the shortest, easiest path to figuring this out. I invited along my good buddy who was a competent sailor and, while we didn’t have to time to practice before the trip, I learned a lot crossing the Pacific with him. The lesson here is if you want to get good at something, surround yourself with people who are better than you.

Lesson 3: Be Prepared

Preparation is the difference between failure and successes, and in an incident we had on the Pacific Crossing, life and death. Fishing line had wrapped around our prop and we were dead center in the Pacific, at least two weeks and thousands of miles from any single piece of land, going nowhere fast. I was trying to clear line off the prop when I got tangled up in a Portuguese Man O War, making it on deck before quickly going into anaphylactic shock. Our third crew member, Jordan, was a paramedic and our med kit was stacked. I got Benadryl down before my esophagus began to close and at the last possible moment, Jordan jabbed an EpiPen in my thigh saving my life. If we didn’t have that EpiPen I would have been buried at sea years ago.

Lesson 4: Whatever Happens, Remain Calm and Don’t Screw Up

It’s one of the most important things you’ll ever learn in dealing with intense situations. If it’s interpersonal, never get angry. If it’s blowing 50 knots, and you’re pounding into a storm when your engine breaks down, don’t panic. If you’re 40 feet down free diving and a shark swims up, really don’t panic. Any of those high intensity emotions only cloud your mind, worsen the situation, and leave you worse off than before. Any good adventurer can set his emotions to the side and rationally, collectedly handle any situation.

Lesson 5: The World Is Huge

It’s seriously massive, and I had no idea. At the same time I learned sailing is the slowest most expensive form of transportation there is.

Lesson 6: Be Positive and Optimistic

Reality is what you make it. Any pessimism or negativity will manifest itself in negative outcomes. Be positive, be kind, be compassionate, and good things will happen.

Lesson 7: Focus on What’s Important

Things I found most important in my life: Friends, family, mountains, and rivers. Whitewater kayaking. Deep-rooted friendships. Being surrounded by genuine, driven people. Ambitious life challenges. Photography. Diversifying my life experiences through exploration of sport, culture, spirituality, and the natural world.

Never force anything and be open to the signs around you. Be sporadic and go with your instinct. Don’t let your mind override your intuition. Never be in a hurry and don’t let the clock rule your life. You know when you’re in the flow and you know when you’re out of it. Like an ocean current, it’s not something you see, it’s something you feel.

Lesson 9: Simplicity is Everything

Simplicity reigns king on the high seas. If it’s complicated it’s going to break and you better not be reliant on it. It’s a good life metaphor.

Lesson 10: Go to the Emergency Room

If you’re traveling in exotic places and you come home sick, don’t go to the family practitioner down the street. Go straight to the ER. It’s probably something weird that nobody really knows about. In my case, I picked up Leishmaniasis on a kayaking expedition in the Colombian Amazon last summer. My lips are slowly being eaten alive by parasites while I wait for the CDC to give a species specific diagnosis. If I had gone to the ER in the first place, it wouldn’t have even been an issue. But don’t worry, it’s not going to kill me and chicks dig scars so it’s all good! Meanwhile, the final leg of the Wizard’s Eye expedition, Colombia to Mexico, hangs in the balance of the protozoa happily living in my face.

———-

To learn more about the expedition visit: https://vimeo.com/wizardseye

]]>http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2017/03/24/10-things-i-learned-while-sailing-around-the-world/feed/0COMMITTED | Powering North America’s 50 Classic Climbshttp://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2017/02/07/committed-powering-north-americas-50-classic-climbs/
http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2017/02/07/committed-powering-north-americas-50-classic-climbs/#commentsWed, 08 Feb 2017 00:03:17 +0000http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/?p=10299Nearly seven years ago, climbers Mark and Janelle Smiley set out to climb a long list of difficult routes made famous by a 1979 guidebook aptly titled “Fifty Classic Climbs of North America”. Their goal was to document their journey up more than 150K vertical feet of rock, ice, and glaciated technical terrain from New Mexico to Alaska. They have had Goal Zero products with them almost since the beginning and we have been proud to power their journey.

They took the time to sit down with us to answer a few questions about the project.

Why the 50 classics?

J- “Roughly 11 years ago, Mark was taking a course with the AMGA (American Mountain Guide Association) and met a fellow climber who had done 20 in 20 (20 classics in 20 days). He asked the climber what the classics were and he explained they were from an iconic early guidebook called the 50 Classic Climbs of North America. He asked him if anyone had done all 50 and he said no, so Mark decided it would be a great challenge. He came home and asked if I was into it. I like adventure and climbing and said, ‘Let’s do it’. We thought maybe it would take us a couple years, we had no idea what it entailed.”

M- “I had climbed a few in California on my first rock climbing road trips, and they were amazing. I figured they would all be as high quality as Yosemite rock climbing, so why not right? Turns out they have not all been done for pretty good reason.”

What is the biggest thing that has changed for you throughout this journey?

M- “I now have a greater appreciation for just how amazing our continent is. We went to places we would have never gone, were it not for the catalyst of this quest. Every place I visited was magical for one reason or another. Different people, flora, fauna, it was all unique and wonderful in its own way.”

J- “ For me it was my comfort level, confidence, and learning to control my fear. When we started the project, I had climbed a couple peaks in Peru and guided on Mt Rainier. I had never climbed a big wall, nor did I really know what aid climbing was. The first time we went to climb the West Ridge of Moose’s tooth I was terrified, it was way beyond my comfort level. I didn’t have confidence in our ability and I thought everything was going to kill me; glaciers, crevasses, saracs, cornices, rock fall, my partner…. We went back three years later with more experience and it felt like a different peak. I felt confident, comfortable, and I wasn’t afraid. We moved up and down the mountain with style and grace, it almost felt easy.”

Best and worst moment?

M- “Reaching 18,000 feet on the Cassin Ridge on Denali was on of the best moments for me. At that point I knew we would make it to the top. It had taken us three attempts, and we were finally going to succeed. The weather was perfect for us. Janelle and I didn’t argue all all, no horrifying moments on the climb. Everything just clicked. It was amazing. For the worst, there have been plenty; Watching Janelle fly off the glacier early on our Mt Logan attempt due to her hips being injured, seeing Janelle get hit in the leg by a football sized rock that came really close to her head while rappelling off Royal Arches… I also almost killed her on our first attempt of Longs Peak when I pulled loose a huge rock and it zipped past her. Pretty much anytime I thought I might loose my soulmate was the worst.”

J- “Sitting in the helicopter looking out at the massive glacier flow patterns coming off Saint Elias after an unreal and successful mission, one I thought would never happen was definitely a high point in the journey. Getting hit with rockfall… no that wasn’t as bad as having to sit in a tent for nine days on three separate occasions… no that wasn’t as bad as eating freeze dried food, ha. In all reality the worst was when I struggled to control my fear, and it got the best of me.”

How did this project change your relationship?

M- “It’s hard to quantify really. I mean seven of the ten years we have been married have been dedicated to this project in one way or another. A lot changes over that amount of time. But I feel like this project has made us a better team, we can tackle anything together, and we definitely don’t sweat the small stuff. Like putting the toilet seat down, or leaving hair in the shower drain.”

J- “It made our relationship stronger, it had to, we lived in a van or a tent most of the time. When you are upset, you can’t be mad for long because you are depending on each other. Zipping the tent really fast as you get out doesn’t have the same effect as slamming a door. After leaving the tent you realize there’s nowhere to go because you’re on a glacier! Eskimo make up time.”

What do you wish you had known at the beginning?

J- “How big of a commitment it was. Well, if I had known that I may not of signed up for it, so I guess it was good not to know.”

M- “I wish that we had taken inspiration of the idea of 50 classic climbs, and made our own list to climb. That way when things got “real” we would have only ourselves to blame. Initially I thought we could knock them all out in a year or two tops, the climbs in the lower 48 can be done in a year, no problem. When you go north, the seriousness jumps considerably, as does the time and money requirement.”

What’s the most valuable camping hack you picked up through the years?

J- “Always pick a partner you might like to spoon with.”

M- “In cold weather, bring a sponge. Your breath will freeze to the inside of the tent, and then in the morning it drips on your face and sleeping bag. This is really annoying. The sponge is used to wipe it down. One more, if the weather is good, and bugs aren’t bad, leave the tent behind and sleep under the stars…that’s the best.”

Any advice you’d like to share?

J- “When it gets rough, it’s ok to cry… Let it all out, (but definitely don’t beat yourself up for crying and let it ruin your day) shake it off, then start climbing again. Move through those fears and frustrations, that’s courage!”

There was barely any snow in Tromso, Norway when the plane abandoned us with 200 pounds of gear. It mistakenly carried the other 200 pounds as it continued north…to the North Pole.

A few days later, we rolled our gear-laden bicycles onto the seven-story Hurtigruten MS Kong Harald and sailed south overnight, skipping the terrain we had wanted to bike and ski in order to acclimate to our setups and surroundings. Instead, we’d waited for delayed luggage to arrive, rode to a ferry, and watched the landscape sail past in the early-morning sunrise as our unfamiliar bicycles waited below deck.

There was a little snow on the summits, but it didn’t look like winter, in the town of Harstad as we stepped out of the elevator rising from the vehicle storage beneath sea level, where we’d retrieved our bicycles. We pedaled them, wobbly beneath hundreds of pounds of gear, in search of better—any, really—snow. We expected to find it within a few hours.

As we slowly crept through the chain of islands, snow was minimal and rarely stretched from summits to the peninsula’s only road, snaking between the coastline on one side and toothy peaks on the other. Folks had told us that our only problem with this trip—aside from its presumed absurd difficulty—would be too much snow. “If it’s anything like last year, the roads will be icy, if not covered in snow, and there will be ten-foot snowbanks along the length of it,” a local told me before we arrived.

But it wasn’t anything like last year. Instead, we found ourselves setting up our tent on dry ground for five days, still having not skied. I’d asked Joey and Kt to join me on a bike-and-ski trip, a “pedal to peaks.” It was quickly turning into a “pedal to…pedal.”

Underwater tunnels connected islands where bridges didn’t, and a constant barrage of semi-trucks, locals, and tourists reminded us that we were traveling the only road on this inhabited part of the country. It became too much for Kt, and she left after only one day of skiing, but nearly one week of pedaling. That day, though, we skied the highest peak in the region—4,140-foot Moysalen, in a national park straddling Sortland and Lodingen.

Joey and I continued south, determined to contrive what skiing we could. As we neared our destination—the end of the archipelago—we realized that we were, quite simply, traveling too late in the low-snow season. Empty and defeated, the road ended in a the monosyllabic town of Å. We sit beside our bicycles and stared into the island-riddled ocean, wearing t-shirts in front of grassy mountains while our skis remained lonely.

But we dug deeper, and realized that, with a few days before our flights departed from the north, we could search for more snow.

We turned around and started pedaling back, this time with a different eye for what we considered ski-worthy.

We skied each of the following days. A side road led to a snowy cirque. An hour of walking on dirt took us to snowline on a mountain on the ocean’s edge. Spring encroached, and the sun stayed above the horizon nearly all day and night, and our spirits mirrored it.

Was it a failure? Does five days of skiing and two weeks of biking mean that it’s not even a ski trip? Do hours spent staring at maps and trying to find mountainous aspects that might hold sufficient snow indicate a poorly planned trip?

Watch the film and decide for yourself.

]]>http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2017/01/22/pedal-to-peaks-norway/feed/5Lake Powell | Excerpts from a winter paddlehttp://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2016/11/02/lake-powell-excerpts-from-a-winter-paddle/
http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2016/11/02/lake-powell-excerpts-from-a-winter-paddle/#commentsWed, 02 Nov 2016 23:40:03 +0000http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/?p=10131Last winter, Goal Zero Ambassadors Forest Woodward and Kalen Thorien, along with adventure storytellers Brendan Leonard, Hilary Oliver, and Sinjin Eberle set out to paddle 90 miles across Lake Powell. While the desert resivior has been at the center or controversey since it began to fill in the early 60’s, it is still home to one of the most unique landscapes in the American West. During their journey Forest Woodward kept a journal, below he shares some of his experiences.

Excerpts from a winter paddle across the deserted reservoir that is Lake Powell (formerly known as Glen Canyon)

Photos and words by Forest Woodward

Stillwater I || Page, Arizona || Arriving in the night, we wake at the foot of lake Powell to the ever present hum of the Navajo Generating Station. With smoke stacks towering some 800 feet above the desert, the perpetually groaning monolith munches through some 22,000 tons of coal each day, supplying energy to a host of southwestern cities in CA, NV and AZ, while simultaneously providing the energy necessary for piping approximately ten percent of the Colorado River out of the Havasu reservoir and up to Phoenix. Despite its looming presence and reverberating impacts on the Colorado Watershed, the power plant plays but an auxiliary role in our reason for being here. Drawn together by a collective curiosity to explore what was once Glen Canyon, we load kayaks and provisions, point out rigs East and breathe easier as the power plant quickly fades into the rear view.

Stillwater II // The Rancher // Somewhere outside Mexican Hat we pass a friendly woman on a 4wheeler who waves us down and asks us to go slow – they’re moving cattle up ahead. From the looks of it, it’s a small scale family affair – a few dozen head of cattle with an older man on horseback and a woman on foot herding them through the scrub brush. As we continue north with our trailer of boats, heading for a reservoir whose contested waters (or lack there of) irrigate and sustain farming and ranching operations across the west, I wonder at the way in which this family’s livelihood is tied to the waters of the Colorado River. Influenced by the archaic “use it or lose it” clauses (most of which were written into law during the gold rush) many ranchers and farmers are compelled to drain far more water from the river than they might otherwise need – for fear of losing their water rights.

Stillwater III // Halls Crossing, Utah // December 1. We wake to frozen water jugs and frost coated sleeping bags. Steaming vessels of dark liquid, a heated campground bathroom, and the easy warmth of the desert sun soon have group moral on the rise. Duffels explode and our boats find themselves quickly stuffed to the gills and adorned with hood ornaments of all shapes and sizes as we prepare to spend the next 8 days exploring the lower 90 miles of America’s second largest man made water feature – Lake Powell. Considered by some to be “the ultimate houseboating and RV camping destination in America” we set out equipped with a somewhat different set of tools from the typical user demographic; kayaks, bivy bags, wag bags, dinners to eat out of bags, and a surface-deep interest in the current water levels of the lake coupled with an even deeper interest in the underlying geology of the reservoir.

Stillwater IV // Halls Crossing – Mile 93 // Last time I was in a sea kayak I only made it three quarters of the way off of land before capsizing. Hoping for better luck this time #KnockOnWoodward

Stillwater V // Miles of musings // With the long days of monotonous paddling on Lake Powell requiring little thought, the unrecruited factions of my mind are left to wander at will.

The following are a few excerpts from a mile by mile rambling stream of conscious log I kept // Mile 91 This is madness // Mile 89 Somebody told me once that what is not alive can never die. But that person had never been to lake Powell. Water sustains life. But here, in this flooded desert landscape something strange is happening – and I’m not talking about the mystery of us paddling in circles trying to figure out how to drop our rudders. No, it is an absence of life, a strangeness amplified by the silence. Haunting in its omnipresence // Mile 85 Water streaks. Long black tendrils, whimsical in their descent from the rim above. A skittish winter sun dips across Navajo sandstone. Time to make camp.

Stillwater VI // The Bathtub Ring // Normally I like bathtub rings because they are a sign that I am in a bathtub – which for many a manly man like myself, is the ultimate way to relax and unwind after a hard day of not being in a bath. But Lake Powell, is not a bathtub, and thus the fact that it has a “bathtub” ring 100 feet tall is somewhat alarming. Though the recent drought in the West bears the brunt of the blame, the current “draining of the tub” is also closely tied to the issue of over allocation – the roots of which can be traced back to 1922 when government officials calculated the annual flow of the Colorado River to be 18 million acre-feet. Over the coming years they, and now “we”, have come to realize the average flow is millions of acre feet shy of that original estimate (in recent years it has dropped to aproximately 12 million acre-feet). Unfortunately, as the bathtub ring clearly delineates, that retrospective realization does not offer up any easy solutions, and has done little or nothing to influence usage on either the institutional or individual level. If you’re interested in learning more I’ve linked to an @npr podcast – http://www.npr.org/2015/06/25/417430662/how-a-historical-blunder-helped-create-the-water-crisis-in-the-west

Stillwater VIII // Wish You Were Here // To see the stars above tilting, twirling, whirling ad occasionally shooting through the clear desert air. To feel the slowness of breaths breathed deep and languidly alongside the monotonous rhythm of paddle strokes, slow sandstone bluffs creeping peripherally and disappearing quietly into yesterday and the day before…and what day is is it now anyhow? Water and sand and stone. Boats and friends and fires. The plurality of writing them in quick succession implying a fullness that is not really there when stretched across the long hours of motion and flatness. The fat pack rat that blinks hungrily from his crumbling red throne, the raven laughing as it ducks and weaves through a flight of sparrows, the carp, lazy and drunk in water that is too deep for him. The slot canyon that dead ends too soon, the petrified wood I left behind to scramble higher, the mysterious pitons, and the store with no ice cream. Yes, I wish you were here for all of it. To experience it for yourself; to write your own words and think your own thoughts.

Stillwater X // Mileage musings // Mile 60 -Instagram, Facebook, narcissism, nature. One of these things is not like the other //Mile 59 – a big horn watches from high on the ridge above, a welcome reminder that we are not the only living things in this land // Mile 58 – we break for lunch at the mouth of the San Juan. Black bananas and spicy thai tuna. Navajo mountain looms over the confluence. Frozen shoulders shimmer and shrug, melting into the sandstone spiderweb of slot canyons below

Stillwater XI // Tombstone // At three of our first four camps we find dead animals. A carp with a black growth on its head, a pair of dead mice, and a mummified big horn sheep. At this point I think we have seen as many dead animals here as living. Perhaps it is just coincidence, but that doesn’t stop my mind from drifting through an increasingly macabre list of parallels as we float over the reemerging body of Glen Canyon.

Stillwater XII // A Haunted Landscape // Three for four. Wondering what day five will bring. Running out of things to die.

Stillwater XIII // Cathedral in the Desert // Looking down

Stillwater XIV // Cathedral in the Desert // Looking up

Stillwater XV // A Window in Time // We make camp early. Grabbing my running shoes and a headlamp I head out of camp at a trot, soon slowing to lateral shuffles as I pick my way around dead and dying tamarisks and across the dry pocketed moonscape that was, for a geological nanosecond, a lake bed. Moving upwards, clusters of abandoned fire rings serve as testament to spring breaks come and gone, and to the unapologetic. downward march of the shoreline. A mile or so from camp I pass a few names and the year ‘1986’ scratched into soft red stone. High water relics from Powell’s glory days and the year I was born. Pushing upwards, the last of the fire rings disappear and the pristine folds and layered lines of the landscape trace an inviting path to a window in time long before (or after) we were here.

Stillwater XVII // Hidden Falls // every once in awhile though, the constricting canyons surprise us by providing a pretty neat spot to turn around.

Stillwater XVIII // Mileage Musings // Mile 34 – The Navajo coal plant has reappeared, growling and huffing at the outer edge of the horizon. We are quick to judge the trespasses of others, past and present, far slower to acknowledge the extent to which our own actions shape a collective future, present, and past. Tread gently. // Mile 12 the miles blend together towards the end, no longer separated by the anticipation of exploration, the wonder of what comes next. We can see it, hear it, feel it. The outside world looming, nostrils huffing and puffing through the night, the heavy breathing of the beast that does not sleep

Stillwater XX // The Marina // The final strokes of our trip take us past a long row of yachts and houseboats. Strange as the chrome trappings and mirrored windows are to our water weary eyes, stranger still are the names of the boats: Equanimity, Evolution, Well Earned, Big Dog, Mandatory Family Joy (#mfj), Portfolio, Apollo. If the names we choose are any indicators, the focus of Powell’s current recreators seems to reflect a shifting, as places like Rainbow Arch, Hanging Grotto, and Twilight Canyon are traded in for AC units and water slides.

Stillwater XXI // In my optimistic naïveté I realized too late that I had come to bear witness to something we could not see. Something which could be whispered of around campfires and felt deep in the side canyons of my soul, yet whose image eluded me. A distorted reflection rippling through a landscape of flooded idealism and parched reality. This is a place that belonged to another time; the death of a Canyon, the birth of the conservation movement, the excitement of innovation, the pride of a nation, the shortsightedness of greed.

Sinjin Eberle

Kalen Thorien

Forest Woodward

Brendan Leonard

Hillary Oliver

]]>http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2016/11/02/lake-powell-excerpts-from-a-winter-paddle/feed/0BRODY LEVEN | Energy That Keeps Me Freehttp://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2016/10/25/brody-leven-energy-that-keeps-me-free/
http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/2016/10/25/brody-leven-energy-that-keeps-me-free/#commentsTue, 25 Oct 2016 19:00:03 +0000http://www.goalzero.com/solarlife/?p=10175Brody Leven seeks out discomfort. In 2014 he and a friend, Abe Greenspan, set out on their first pedal to peaks trip with a plan to bike to and ski Mount Adams, Mount Saint Helens, and Mount Rainier. With over 200 lbs of ski, camp, bike, and glacier equipment they climbed over 55,000 vertical feet throughout the 500 mile trip.

“It seemed like a good idea on the phone, but was excruciatingly difficult in reality,” said Leven. “We spent most of our time in our bikes’ lowest gears, grinding up 5000-foot mountain passes in the rain.”

For some reason, Leven decided to up the ante by planning another pedal to peaks expedition. The goal was to ride and ski across a wintery Norway. For this trip he was accompanied by Joey Schusler, an incredibly talented cinematographer, photographer, storyteller, and bike lover. After arriving in Norway, they set off to find skiable lines and explore the frigid expanse.

||Below, Leven shares a few thoughts and photos from the trip||

“This rig, specially designed to move me and my ski/bike/climb/glacier/camp gear across Arctic Norway during the winter, wasn’t very easy to steer. Additionally, my rear derraileur broke on the second day, leaving me with a single speed…and 200 pounds”

“There was a lot of rain, snow, and sleet during this trip. And as much as I hate stuffing wet sleeping bags and tents into waterproof bicycle panniers, the occasional sunny day allows warmth to dry everything out…IF we had time to stop and unpack. But it’d be stupid to waste a day drying when we could be skiing corn in the Arctic, right!? Thus, we were often wet.”

“Our tent, just out of frame, was a home base for 2 days while we got shut down while climbing and skiing peaks in this zone. After taking this shot, Joey left his tripod on the beach for a day. He probably could have come back 3 years later and found it. This place doesn’t see much traffic…”

“Ugh. These were our biking conditions. Our skiing conditions. Our sleeping conditions. And as cold, wet, and brutal as they were, we managed to ski almost every second day. After all, this was a ski trip…we just chose to use these environmentally-friendly (but physically-draining) bicycles instead of cars.”

So there I was. In 2nd gear going twenty miles an hour with my flashers on, praying Ol Blue would make it over the continental divide in late October on our first official date together. The seals on the doors were rattling, cars were racing by on my left at 70 mph and the windshield wiper fluid had apparently already sprung a leak and began to soak my boots as the freezing air rushed around my feet from the hole for the gas pedal. All I could do was laugh. I now officially knew what I had gotten myself into and I was in love.

How did I get here? Ever since I had my first cup of coffee about 2500 miles into a 4000 mile solo bike tour around the country I knew I had to find a way to bring both my passion for coffee and adventure together. Turns out that meant buying a 71 VW off craigslist without ever having driven it before and starting a coffee business. That is how Carabiner Coffee Company began. How did I get HERE though? Oh I just drove.

The past few years in Ol Blue have taught me more about myself, those around me, and what I truly want out of life than I could have ever imagined. I started serving coffee out of my van because I wanted to meet people and spread some love. I wanted to hear the stories that shaped people’s lives and I wanted to shape my own. We forget how simple life really is sometimes. Making coffee for people brings me back to that fact every day. Do something you love and spread that love into the lives of those around you. Oh yeah and don’t forget to get yourself into a little trouble every one in a while too.

Living and working around the country out of a van that is half the size of your freshman dorm in college is indeed just as romantic as is sounds, but like any romance there are going to be some fights. Ol Blue and I usually fight over things like which songs to listen to, if we can make it up the next mountain pass without stopping and when we should get up in the morning. She’s also a little expensive sometimes but like any gal that will travel the country with you… she’s worth it.

What is my advice in life? Not that you asked.. but I’ll tell you anyways. We all only have one life to do everything we’ve wanted to do and it’s going to be risky. You’re going to fail sometimes, maybe even many times in a row but good lord if you don’t try you’ll never how good it could have been. I have yet to meet someone who is out there chasing their dreams that for better or worse wouldn’t tell you to do the same. Again, you’ll never know if you never try. Get out there, risk it for the biscuit and fall in love with live every day.

As a business owner and adventurist on the road I count on having power when and where I need it. Whether it’s charging the laptop after day in the mountains or making coffee for everyone at the trail-head before we all head out for the day, it just has to work. I love being able to travel the country and spread love through my business without having to worry about running out of power and knowing I’m doing it in an environmentally conscious way. Goal Zero products have made it possible for me to do what I love to do in life and to me that is priceless.

Two years ago I sat a desk, lost in the mysterious photograph in front of me. A beautiful snapshot in time, the moment in front of me embodied an obsession. I had become addicted to New Zealand ever since I magically fell upon their Te Araroa (translation: The Long Pathway). Matters amplified in addiction when I realized the “TA” was founded in 2011, making it the world’s newest thru-hike. While my friends were exploring breweries and forging new trails on the weekends, I remained relentless to my goal. There was an insatiable hunger in my soul to hike the 1,800 mile length of New Zealand. I can’t fully explain why, but I would argue you don’t need to put a tangible finger on meaning or purpose. I wanted to hike it because it was there.

18 months later, I awoke from adrenaline. It was 5:30am, the earliest rise of the entire TA trip, and our crew planned to attack the glorious day ahead. We were lucky enough to find ourselves sandwiched between two massive storm days. Yesterday we chose to wait out the sky’s eerie howls, hiking half the day to arrive at the Blue Lake hut that night. Tomorrow we would likely see the gnarliest New Zealand storm yet. But today we were infinite. There is wild, there is peaceful, and then there’s New Zealand – that’s both at the same time.

The storm was set to let up for a tiny 24-hour window, so we planned to get as far as possible. Our goal, to climb the notoriously difficult Waiau Pass. The morning’s coffee didn’t go down as easily as I thought it would – the butterflies made caffeine unnecessary. I secured my pack, fastened my boots, and charged out the door, nervous as ever.

New Zealand rewarded us for the early rising. Each hour I found myself stopping to film and photograph the unimaginable beauty that was unfolding. Clouds parted to reveal elicit blue lakes, reflecting the jagged mountain peaks above. Then it got serious. We found ourselves at the base of Waiau pass. I cranked my neck to it’s breaking point, observing the climb in front of my eyes. Step by step I trudged my way up the pass, taking deep breaths of rejuvenation at every TA pole marker. I felt slow and long-winded. When I thought I had reached the top, I stopped dead in my tracks and bowed my head in discouragement. False summit. I decided to take a break, thirsty for optimism. As I turned around to look at the view behind me for the first time since the climb, my heart skipped a beat.

There, in front of me, was the exact view from the photograph I had stared at two years ago. Hands shaking with sheer thrill, I snapped a shot of my friend as he made his way up the trail.

We all have dreams. Ambitions that burn in our soul and call us to take a courageous quest. But most of our dreams are stored away for “someday”. Two years ago, when I sat at that desk researching the world’s newest thru-hike, I made a choice to not reserve that view in the photograph for someday.

In that unexpected moment on Waiau Pass, I felt a jolt of energy. I felt a resurgence of why I was here. I felt alive. Our team celebrated at the top and prepared for our treacherous descent down the scree.

Eager to review the footage, I called up our director, Brian, who had recently bought a van and was shadowing our route. He immediately laid out the solar panels in preparation for the night ahead.

Surrounded by a campfire, beers, and energetic conversation, I grabbed my computer and the Sherpa 100 to review my dream image. I took a second to absorb my surroundings, realizing that here we were, telling the story of New Zealand, powered by the New Zealand sun energy. In that moment I felt grateful to have an office anywhere.

New Zealand shook me to the core. There were so many moments that reminded me how small I am in the world, and how much there is left to explore. When I truly opened my eyes and heart to the alpine mountain paradise around me, Te Araroa revealed its magic.

Try to spend 31 nights sleeping outside between Memorial Day and Labor Day. The Big idea: Spend a month sleeping under the stars without quitting your job. I had a blast trying for 31 nights out myself, and I learned a few things over the course of the summer.

1. It’s worth risking a bad night out sleeping in a tent over a good night sleeping in a bed.

I have no scientific proof to back it up, but I can remember every day I rolled myself out of my sleeping bag after sleeping fitfully and having a few minutes of “nature time” during breakfast. All the days I got out of bed to make coffee before work just kind of bleed together.

2. Being able to sleep in your car helps.

I hate to think I have an unfair advantage over anyone, but I gotta say: having a van with a mattress in it allowed me to get several nights of sleep outside this summer with minimal planning. I’ll admit it.

3. You don’t necessarily have to cook dinner and breakfast there.

Yes, camping is more fun with camp food, but if the goal is to get as many nights as possible outside, doing away with camp breakfast and/or dinner makes the planning less daunting. Grab a sandwich or a burrito on your way out, and a granola bar or two for the next morning (and maybe a canned espresso drink) and boom, you’re ready to go.

4. Campfires are not necessary.

Obviously they’re nice. But they’re not mandatory for a decent night out in the middle of the summer, when it’s light out until after 9 p.m.

5. It doesn’t have to be an instagram worthy campsite.

Not every campsite is photogenic, and believe it or not, there are some benefits to just enjoying the experience instead of trying to communi- cate it to our social media followers.

6. However it is really interesting to see what other people are doing on instagram.

I was happy to see a lot of great shots of people doing “balcony bivies” and camping in friends’ front yards just to get a couple more nights outside this year.

7. Hot drinks are the best.

Sure, whiskey is great. But when it’s getting chilly in the mountains, hot tea or hot chocolate is a more sustainable (and lighter) morale booster right before you jump in your sleeping bag for the night.

8. Pack heavy when you can

The saying is, “The more you know, the less you need.”
But I also think the more you hike, the less you mind
hauling in heavy stuff for a short distance. Campsite’s only two or three miles up the trail? I’m bringing cans of chili, maybe some TastyBite, some brownies. It’s as close as some of us will get to glamping.

9. Friends invited vs. Amount of sleep

The more friends you have around, the later you’ll go to bed. This is a very simple equation. If you really want to get to sleep at a reasonable hour (i.e. camping on a school night), invite fewer people to hang out with.

10. Next year we’ll start earlier and end later.

Quite a few people got close to 31 nights out by Labor Day, but not quite. For 2016, we’ll make it a longer season to give everyone a bigger chance of success—even though any number of nights sleeping outside is success, really.

Roughly two years ago they realized they had become bored with their jobs and daily routines. Then they discovered tiny houses. Construction on their tiny home eventually began and they have now been on the road for over a year pursuing Jenna’s dream of writing and Guillaume’s passion for photography.

“There’s something magical about road-tripping without a plan. I enjoy getting lost in nature; it creates just enough vulnerability to truly discover your surroundings, and to fall in love. And I was falling in love with the music and scent of this fresh landscape. While wandering through British Columbia, Guillaume and I created a series of private wilderness retreats by positioning our cabin on wheels in picturesque landscapes. Our ever-changing backyard became a Garden of Eden. We couldn’t wait to explore the mysterious terrain and spent our days hiking the hills, canoeing the ponds, fishing the streams and basking in summer sunsets. Every night I fell asleep gazing through my skylight, admiring a new angle of the Milky Way.

A popular mantra among road-trippers is ‘Home is where you park it.’ Even though our tiny abode has found us many other homes since, I yearn to return to my peaceful, wild home in British Columbia.” - Jenna

Jenna and Guillaume’s tiny home has 125 square feet on the bottom floor with a 60 square foot loft. They began construction in September of 2013 and hit the road exactly one year later. It took more than 1,000 hours to complete and came in under $30,000, which isn’t too bad when you consider the average home in America goes for around $360K.

“Guillaume and I have grown as travelers, individuals and as partners in crime. Over the past year, we have collected memories instead of possessions, and we’re happier now than ever before!” – Jenna

This expedition had its beginnings in 2013, while I completed a 21-day snowboarding and climbing trip in the Tordrillo Mountains. During an initial recon flight and subsequent ground travel in this range, I became increasingly aware of its alpine rock climbing potential as we walked past beautiful orange granite. It was incredible to me that these glaciated and craggy peaks, world renowned for heli-skiing, were relatively unexplored for rock climbing. I told myself I’d return for a closer look in summer.

It wasn’t until June 2015 that I got the chance to do another recon flight; this time I had an eagle eye for accessing these big rock walls. Flying low and slow, we circled and soared around numerous pinnacles, close enough to the rock to feel like we were climbing. In doing so, we scoped an incredible amount of terrain, however, rapid snowmelt alongside crevasse-riddled landing zones and approaches discouraged us. We continued our flight, looking for a less glaciated area. Our search brought us into the neighboring Hidden Mountains, and what we found was absolutely stunning. Initially, we spotted a set of gorgeous granite pyramids—that upon further investigation proved to be unnamed, unclimbed, and completely unexplored.

The Hidden Mountains are small group of peaks located between the Tordrillo Mountains and the Revelations. They have only seen a handful of expeditions, mostly unsuccessful, and it was very apparent why: The rugged and remote nature of these peaks seems to rapel any sort of serious effort. Fred Beckey once lined up a trip here that cost a fortune in flying logistics alone. This year, with summer temperatures a month advanced, a ski plane-accessed base camp-style expedition was out of the question. We had to find somewhere free of snow and these mystery peaks were perfect for the occasion.

After weeks of logistical nightmares, I finally figured out what it would take to approach these peaks. We launched our expedition from Nikiski, flying 70 miles across the Cook Inlet and into the mountains. Our pilot Doug Brewer and I took off in a Super Cub, using that as a recon/shuttle aircraft, while my partners James Gustafson and Tim Plotke followed behind in a Beaver floatplane. With high winds and water in all directions near the shore of Chakachamna Lake, we struggled to find an LZ appropriate for both the floatplane and Super Cub, so Doug and I continued toward our objective, seeing how close we could land. After extensive searching and multiple bear sightings, the closest we could get was 12 miles from our destination. The terrain we had to travel looked like serious bush-bashing along Another River but we were very committed at this point.

From Chakachamna Lake, Doug shuttled in James, Tim, and the rest of our gear. It took us five days to travel those 12 miles. Incessant mosquitos and alders blocked our path, and a machete was required to cut our way through the denser areas. Some days I would throw down my pack at the end of an exhausting 14-hour day and see that we had only gone 1.8 miles. Some bears were indifferent to our passing but others showed signs of curiosity and aggressiveness. On one occasion our only option was to spray buckshot from our twelve-gauge to deter them.

Eventually, we made it into the rocky cirque that we had begun calling Talliktok (native word for Hidden). We made ourselves at home by pitching our Mega-mid on a flat rock. In the weeks that followed, we made the first ascent of Uyuraq (meaning Brother) via it’s north ridge (4 pitches, 5.7) and made multiple attempts at a direct line up the west face of Talliktok, climbing corner systems up to 5.10, which all ended in dangerously loose rock and very questionable belays. On “halfway” weather days—when we weren’t tent-bound from the constant downpours—we had the chance to explore the extensive bouldering potential in the cirque. On our hike out, we were able to check out another untouched climbing venue we dubbed the Bear Slabs. After twenty-four days, we arrived back in civilization for glorious burgers and beers after the wildest adventure of our lives!

The peak we’ve called Talliktok is still out there lurking in the clouds of the Hidden Mountains awaiting its first ascent. Who will be up for it?